


Cogito, Ergo Sum

by sciencebutch



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio), Doctor Who (TV Movie 1996), Doctor Who: Eighth Doctor Adventures - Various Authors
Genre: Autistic Doctor (Doctor Who), Body Horror, Body Swap, Chubby Charley Pollard, F/M, Gen, Nonbinary Eighth Doctor, i was like what if i made them super duper unsettling, in terms of the aliens, maybe ill just be the first to say it but, so i did
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:47:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26385139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencebutch/pseuds/sciencebutch
Summary: The Doctor wakes up chained to a wall in a bare white cell. Such a thing would not be such an extraordinary occurrence, had he not been in Charley's body, and had Charley not been in his.[a body swap fic!]
Relationships: Eighth Doctor & Charley Pollard, Eighth Doctor/Charley Pollard, can be read as either romantic or platonic - Relationship
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	Cogito, Ergo Sum

**Author's Note:**

> YEAH I KNOW IM WRITING ANOTHER THING RIGHT NOW YES I KNOW IM POSTING ANOTHER CHAPTER FIC. COLLEGE IS making me ins*ne in the he*ad

The Doctor is asleep until he wakes up. This is how such events usually go. 

He wakes up because he hears his name, but he doesn’t stir. 

“Doctor?” urges the voice from across the room. It is one that’s vaguely familiar, one that he’s heard before - he just can’t recall from where, or when, or by whom he’s heard it. It’s like it had been thrown through a pitch modulator, or something; just slightly off. “Doctor, wake up,” the voice says. It’s laced with nervousness in a way that sounds wrong, incompetent, as if the voice usually didn’t inflect that particular emotion and was still getting used to the idea of doing so. 

There’s a reason for that, his mind says, and he thinks about it before deciding that he’d rather just go back to sleep, thank you very much, and not think about it - or anything - much more. His muscles are sore and  _ blegh _ , his mouth tasted like marmite, something Charley tended to spread on toast; she said it reminded her of home. He said it reminded him of engine oil. He smacks his lips, and wonders why it was there in the first place. 

He feels heavier than he did yesterday, more weighed down. And his senses feel dulled. Maybe he’s coming down with a cold. That would be a first. 

“ _ Doctor, _ ” the voice hisses urgently, and somehow that startled him more than it did when it spoke at a decent decibel. “Doctor, something is very wrong.” 

_ Story of my life _ , he wants to say. 

He balls up a fist and stretches his body like a cat, dipping his back further into the floor - and since when was he on the floor? The Doctor pats around him, feeling about, before raising his head and looking around. 

The walls are a white sort of hyperplastic, and so are the floors. There’s probably a door, somewhere, but the room is so high-tech it probably fused with the walls when it closed. There are no amenities anywhere, no furniture.

He is sitting against the wall, though. That is to say, his  _ body _ is sitting against the wall. And it’s awake. And it’s staring at him. 

It’s very unnerving, being stared at by yourself, he comes to notice. You would think that you would be used to it, after looking in mirrors, seeing your reflection in various places, et cetera. But it isn’t like that at all. His body is breathing, moving, all autonomously of him. His hearts beat at a different rate than his hearts--

He pauses.

“I only have one heart beating,” he says, and his voice is so foreign in his mouth he almost spits out his words to get rid of it. He decides to try saying that again, this time lowering his voice to a timbre more suitable to what he’s accustomed to. “I. I,  _ I, _ ” he has to test it at first, try to get the exact right tone - like tuning a violin, plucking the strings until they’re just right. “Only have one heart beating,” he finishes, and decides it’ll have to do. 

Oddly enough, it doesn’t give him the same adrenaline-danger sensation it usually does, like he’s suffocating even though he’s breathing fine. It feels...normal. 

“Well I should hope so,” his body - the one against the wall - says as it begins to scoot towards him, and the Doctor sees the translucent energy chain banded around his ankle. Then he senses one shackled round his own. He flexes his foot, looking down at it. 

Those shoes look familiar. Tight-laced, knee-high, brown leather, good for stomping around in. Charley was an excellent stomper, because she’s had lots of practice. Particularly in these shoes. Which he’s wearing. 

“Why am I wearing Charley’s shoes?” he asks himself, and then wonders why he’s wearing her pants, and her big billowy shirt, and her suspenders, and  _ hey _ , that freckle on his hand is new. 

“ _ Doctor! _ ” his body shouts, his face all scrunched up with frustration. “I’ve been trying to  _ say-- _ ”

Everything clicks, then, as if a puzzle had miraculously been solved all at once in his head. 

“Charley?” he asks faintly. 

“ _ Yes! _ ” his body - Charley, exclaims, “Doctor, what’s happening?” 

The Doctor sits up carefully, methodically, testing out every part of his --  _ Charley’s  _ \-- body. “It seems as if we’ve swapped bodies. You’re very stiff, Charley,” he points out, rolling his head around on his neck. A few vertebrae pop as he does so. 

“Probably because you’ve been sleeping on the floor,” she grinds out through her teeth. 

“Ah,” he looks down at the floor, “Right.” 

He tests out the body further, somewhat disconcerted by the feeling of having double helix DNA, rather than triple, of having one brain stem - no wonder he felt sluggish. All the impulses sent two-thirds slower. 

“Doctor,” her voice cracks, crumbles, like the strength has seeped out of her. The rest of her sentence is said in a whisper, “My head hurts.” 

The Doctor curses, scrabbling up clumsily - although they were about the same height, Charley was heavier than he was, and her weight was distributed differently, he just had to get used to her body’s center of gravity - and over to her, ignoring the fact that it was his ice-chip eyes pleading up at him. He clutches her shoulders, leans her torso in for a hug. She nestles in the crook of his neck, claims the solace there. 

“Oh Charley,” he whispers, “Charley, I’m sorry - it’s a lot, isn’t it?” 

She nods, and he strokes her hair, trying not to feel  _ too  _ weird about the fact that technically, it was his own hair he was stroking. 

A Time Lord’s senses are far different than a human’s. Not only could they perceive things in space, but also in Time. Time, like frayed golden threads, splayed out everywhere, engulfing one's entire field of vision like they were slowly sinking into a vat of honey. Time, buzzing like mosquitoes, stinking the air like formaldehyde. So much of Time was death, and the stench is usually what makes many Time Lords go mad. That bitter, acrid, rank smell of chemical preservatives and rotten flesh. Of maggots and decomposition.

“Usually I have to lock most of it away,” he says, “Lock it behind doors...Focus really hard,” he instructs. He realizes, now that he’s teaching someone else how to repress his Time senses, he himself feels rather blind without them pressing against his mind, as if his peripheral vision had been stripped and crumbled away. 

“I  _ can’t _ ,” she’s trembling, she must’ve held herself together until he woke up, and then allowed herself to break. “I  _ can’t _ , Doctor, it’s too bright, it’s too much.” 

“I know, I know,” he says gently, “Just listen to me, listen to my voice.” 

Her hands grip onto his shirt as she nods weakly.

“First, take a few deep breaths,” her breathing had gone fast and shallow, and he waits patiently for her to inhale strongly, fully. She sniffles every once in a while, and he notices there’s a damp spot on Charley’s silk shirt. He starts rubbing her back, holding her closer. “Good,” he says softly, “Now, I want you to imagine Time as a ball, one that you can condense as much as you like. Imagine it leaving your sight, seeping gradually from your field of vision, imagine grabbing those pesky buzzing timelines in your ears, and all that gold seeping into the ball, filling it.”

It’s a technique they were taught after they all looked into the Untempered Schism. He recalls just how much it had been, all that information, all that Time, flooding his mind. Poor Charley. 

He waits as she nods again. “It’s better,” she sniffs, “What about the smell? Doctor, it’s  _ awful _ .” 

“I know,” he says, “It’s trickier to deal with as well, sometimes even I have difficulty containing it.” Sometimes it’s all he can do to let it not overpower him. Sometimes it  _ does _ overpower him, and he’s left clutching at his nose and squeezing his eyes shut in the zero room and rocking back and forth, waiting for it to dissipate. 

It never does. 

“Is that why you light all those candles?” she laughs weakly, her voice thick. 

“A little,” he admits, “Mostly I just think they make the place look nice.” 

“They do,” she mumbles, “I like them.” 

He chuckles faintly, “I’m glad.” 

“Don’t know why they would be on a high-tech futuristic space ship though,” she grumbles. 

“Well, you know what they say: if it ain’t baroque, don’t fix it.” 

Charley freezes, then glares up at him, and he has to stifle a laugh when he sees such an expression on his own face. 

“What?” she asks, a smile gradually creeping its way onto her mouth.

“It’s just strange,” he points out, “Seeing your expressions on my face.”

“I’ll say,” she grouses, her eyebrows furrowing. Then, after a beat: “Doctor, what happened? I can’t recall - we were in the TARDIS, and then...it’s just blank.” 

The Doctor runs his hands through his hair, then remembers as he does so, that it’s Charley’s hair his fingers are carding through. He always loved Charley’s hair, though - soft as down and cropped close, rarely any tangles to get caught on, unlike his. 

He doesn’t remember, either. They had been in the Vortex, and he had just sat down with a lovely cup of tea - an extraordinary darjeeling he’d picked up in Bengal, some time in the early 19th century - before the Cloister Bell tolled and the scanner had lit up with  _ TIME MALFUNCTION _ and everything had, essentially, gone to the dogs. 

Charley had run in shouting “Doctor, what’s happening?!” in an extravagant display of concern that the Doctor really thinks she does to appease him. He, in his usual fashion, said “I don’t know,” and then they’d landed with a thud that sent his darjeeling crashing to the ground. And then they went outside, and then…

“I don’t remember either, Charley,” the Doctor says. “It is a bit odd though, that we should wake up in each other’s bodies.”

“Just a  _ bit _ odd, eh?” she snorts.

“Well, I think so,” he replies, not catching her sarcasm. “Removing one’s consciousness and putting it into another body, well, it opens up a whole philosophical can of worms. Descartes would have a field day, were he here. Well, that, or it would give him a terrible headache.”

“ _ I’m  _ getting a headache,” Charley moans, tossing her head back. 

So was he. “So am I,” he says. “But you have to admit, it is interesting. Look!” he wiggles his short round fingers and smiles giddily, “I’m all human. Not just half.”

Charley gives him a look. “Well,” she huffs, “I think I could do without being a Time Lord. There’s so much room up here,” she rubs her forehead.

“Mm, not much room in your head, Charley,” he responds, “I had to jettison the croquet court.”

“I’m  _ so _ sorry,” she says drily. “However will you cope?” He waves a hand.

“I’ll be alright. Now, shall we see about getting out of here? Doing a bit of investigating?”

“Why, Doctor,” Charley says, “I thought you’d never ask.” 

They both share mischievous glances as the Doctor moves to reach into his pocket. He stops midway. “Ah, Charley, mind passing me my sonic screwdriver?” 

“Hm?” she had zoned out, “Oh, yes, of course.” She sets to rummaging about in his coat pocket, her arm shoved in up to the shoulder. He shoots her a concerned look. 

“You know,” he says as she searches, “I wonder what being in each other’s bodies will lead to, personality-wise,” she peers up at him as she pulls out a picnic blanket, followed by a wheel of cheese and a bottle of Merlot. “Certain traits have been linked to genetics, and since our cells are still expressing the same genes they always have, just with another consciousness inside, well...I hope we don’t lose ourselves too much.”

“We’ll fix it, Doctor,” Charley reassures him, finally procuring the sonic screwdriver and holding it out to him, “When do we not?” 

“Correct as always, Charley,” he says, taking the tool from her hand.

He frowns.

“What’s wrong?” 

It’s dead in his palm, just a simple machine, all cold metal and wiring. There’s no spark, no connection, no telepathic communication. 

_ Of course _ . Of course, it wouldn’t work - not with him, not right now. 

“You aren’t telepathic, Charley.” 

“No, I’m not,” she says slowly, trying to shove the wheel of cheese back in the Doctor’s frock coat pocket. 

“The sonic screwdriver needs a telepathic connection to work properly.” 

“Oh. Give it to me, then, since I’m in your body.” 

His mouth opens minutely.  _ Obviously _ , he thinks, and wonders if his critical thinking was deteriorating in this tiny skull. No offense to Charley, of course, but her species's crania weren’t necessarily bigger on the inside. “Right!”

She glances thoughtfully at it, observing it from all angles. “How does it work?”

“Just think really hard about what you want it to do,” he explains, “In this case, you want to locate the door, get it to open.” 

Charley nods. “Right.” 

Just then, the wall to the cell dissipates.  _ Perhaps it isn’t hyperplastic _ , the Doctor thinks,  _ but rather condensed hydrogen. _ It’s hard to tell, especially with his senses as human as they are for the time being. He deflates some. No daring escape after all - at least, not right now. Charley had hurriedly squirreled the sonic back into a pocket.

Someone enters the room. They’re tall, bipedal, and as flat as a pancake, as if they’d been run through a taffy machine. They had short, stumpy legs, and their fore-limbs - were they not typing at a holoscreen - would be grazing the floor. The Doctor could see their organs pulsating under their thin, paper skin, could see every vein bulge and every joint pop, like their viscera had been vacuum packed in. 

Their hands are like that of a skeleton - a dozen long phalanges attached at the wrist, with no tendons to form a palm. Small eyes, tiny black dots, have been poked into either side of its face, like pinpricks. It wheezes and sucks through its tube of a mouth, which is jawless. In fact, it seems to have no bones altogether - not in the traditional sense, at any rate - the Doctor assumes its skeleton is composed of a hydrostatic, thick, flexible cording. He’s seen something like it before; rather than having muscles, it moves via pumping fluid in and out of places, to lengthen and constrict the limbs. 

“Doctor…” Charley whispers. She sounded a little horrified. 

“I know, Charley,” the Doctor responds, comfortingly. These creatures were quite grotesque to look at, but the Doctor likes to keep an open mind about these sorts of things. “Hello there, are you our captor this evening?”

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on [tumblr!](%E2%80%9Ceightdoctor.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D)


End file.
